


Pillars of Krakoa; or, The No-Place

by InsertSthMeaningful



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Canon Universe, Cherik Week, Cherik on Krakoa, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Fluff, Foreplay, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Kissing, Krakoa, Light Smut, M/M, Mutant Husbands, Mutant Society
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24487612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertSthMeaningful/pseuds/InsertSthMeaningful
Summary: Though they have successfully founded a nation together, Charles and Erik will never not start an argument. At least, this night sees them doing so in their very own hideaway on Krakoa.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 22
Kudos: 40
Collections: Cherik Week 2020





	Pillars of Krakoa; or, The No-Place

**Author's Note:**

> This is my fill for the second day of Cherik Week, Mutant Society!  
> Now, just a lil disclaimer: I don't read any Marvel comics save for mutant-related stuff, so I have no idea whether I got Tony Stark and the current Avengers situation right, but they're just a plot tool anyway. I also worked in some subtle fix-its, because screw you, Marvel 🍵 Our Red Bisexual Pirate Queen deserves better.  
> Many thanks to my lovely beta [flightinflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightinflame) 🥰

“Do keep your lap dog under control, Xavier, will ya?”

Stark’s smirk at his own quip is disgustingly smug. Erik grits his teeth. Only Charles Xavier, standing between them, seems to remain unfazed by the audacity of the Man of Iron, his lips motionless and impassive under the blue cross of his Cerebro unit.

Of course, there is an emphasis on _seems_.

_Let’s not escalate now, Erik. He’s merely human._

_Yes. A mere human threatening a god, scared by his those who stand above him – as he should be._ Carefully, so that its hem doesn’t drag on the dirty floor of the Avengers Headquarters, Erik transfers the bunched-up fabric of his unblemished white cape from the crook of his right arm to his left. Do these people not know how to keep their linoleum tiles clean?

Charles’ snort at Erik’s – admittedly a little nit-picky – thought is almost inaudible. Still, Stark’s (incredibly dull and woefully _baseline_ ) eyes go to flick from the Master of Magnetism to Professor X beside him. “You’re doing that mind talk thingy again, aren’t you?” he asks, hands fidgeting for the band around his wrist which Erik knows will, when touched, unfold one of Tony Stark’s most priced inventions: an Iron Man suit of nanotechnology with not even a trace amount of metal in it. Theoretically put, the perfect weapon in defence against a metalbender.

However, mutantdom has only recently ascended to divinity. And gods do not get inconvenienced by mere mortals.

Erik smiles a small, negligently superior smile. “I would very much appreciate it if you ceased your rambling borne from insecurity and answered the question Charles Xavier has asked you.”

“Now listen up, you glorified stereotypical magnet villain-!”

“Tony, please,” Charles finally says, “there is no need for such petty threats. You might have removed all metal in this room for our visit, and your psionic blockers might be trying to scramble my reach, but be assured that it is still _us_ who hold the power in this constellation right now. Your inventions might be trying to oppress our mutations, but they are not eliminating them completely.”

“The song of the iron in your bloodstream is indeed a divine temptation,” Erik adds swiftly, and yes, it may be a little dramatic and over-the-top, but when has that ever stopped him?

In any case, it does still the plans of resistance which he has been able to see hatching behind Tony Stark’s eyes. “You can’t just come and threaten me in my own home, X-Men,” is the last feeble attempt at protesting which the human starts, but he falls quiet at last when Erik gives the lightest twitch of his hand.

“As I said, Tony, we are not here as enemies. This is not an attack. It is simply an inquiry,” Charles purrs and smiles amiably. “Now, my question.”

Erik thinks his fellow mutant looks dashing in the black suit he has chosen to wear for his visit. Then again, when does Charles not look his best? He can’t keep himself from reaching over and brushing an imaginary mote of dust from the Professor’s lapel.

“Thank you, dear friend,” Charles says absent-mindedly, focus still on their unwilling host. “We know from our sources that you have been gathering information on certain mutants’ whereabouts, Tony. One of them would be David Haller, codename Legion. My son. I seek to bring him home, as well as the rest of our mutant brothers and sisters who you have been monitoring.”

“Those sources,” Stark mutters, ambling over to the counter where he gets a glass tumbler and pours himself three fingers of whiskey, “would they by any chance be named Emma Frost?”

Erik stifles a smirk. Charles is less successful. “She is indeed one of our most reliable informants.”

They both keep quiet about the sound-absorbing vases and countertops based on ringing rocks of diabase which Forge and Beast have been planting in the facilities of various potentially mutant-phobic organisations all around the globe. Their most efficient spyware is a well-kept secret not meant for human ears – or even most mutant ears, come to think of it.

Stark groans and downs the liquor in one swift movement. Erik would have been insulted by the lack in hospitality – the Man of Iron hasn’t even made one move to offer them a drink of their own – were it not for the fact that they are merely dropping by for a chat.

“Knew I should have kept my hands off that particular lady,” Stark groans, and then says a little louder, “You could just pluck the info from my head, right, Charles? Since you’re so overpowered now?”

“I could.” This time, Charles’ smile has grown sharp, like the blade of a well-groomed sword. Erik thinks it’s to die for. “But I prefer to play by the rules. So, I would be very grateful if you now decided to copy your findings onto this storage medium-” He hands Stark a small inconspicuous-looking device designed by Forge, with the capacity to store three times the volume of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s digital database, and the human takes it with open reluctance- “and then proceeded to erase them from your system, including backup copies you might have made of it so that it cannot be used by the wrong people.”

“You really thought this through, haven’t you?” Stark’s gaze is biting, bordering on accusing. It’s almost as if he thinks he had the right to judge them, which is, in Erik’s opinion, frankly ridiculous.

“Of course, we have,” he replies in Charles’ stead. “If the survival of your species, your _children_ depended on it, I’m sure you would do just the same.”

 _Well spoken, my dear_ , Charles tells him contentedly, and then, when Stark sighs and dramatically shuffles around to trudge over to his interface and carry out what Charles just told him, he looks over – just for a second – and this time, his smile is truly genuine.

The sun is just setting on the horizon when they step back through the New York gate – and directly into the midst of a flock of mutant children, who are frolicking around in the high grass of a Krakoan meadow, enjoying the last stray rays of dusk.

Of course, there are squeals of “Magneto! Magneto’s back!” and “Look, the Professor is with him!” Grubby hands come to grab for theirs, and a young mutant almost faints from joy when Erik bends down, hooks his hands under their armpits covered in emerald scales and hoists them up onto his hip.

 _Will you look at that? You make an admirable idol, Erik_ , Charles says and smiles, and then the kids crowding in around him squeak as he taps a hidden control panel on his hip three times and the fabric of the charcoal suit he is wearing folds in on itself to smooth out into his usual black, skin-tight unitard. He sighs in relief. _Ah. Much better._

 _Were your human clothes too uncomfortable?_ Erik asks absent-mindedly as he wets his thumb with his tongue and then wipes smudges of Krakoan soil from the mutant child’s cheeks. They scrunch up their nose, but the happy wrinkles around their eyes remain.

Erik thinks back to his own childhood, and once again, he feels gratitude welling up in his chest. Gratefulness that he gets to see all these young mutants happy and thriving and – most important of all – safe, here, in their very own home on Krakoa.

 _Uncomfortable? No_ , Charles tells him. _Unfit for this paradise of ours? Yes. But I do hope I still look as dashing to you as before._

_Of course, old friend. Even more so now that you no longer hide behind humanity’s restraints._

Charles laughs out loud at that, and the children giggle with him and then scramble to keep up with them as they start down the hillside, Charles’ hands and wrists occupied by the grasps of five young mutants, Erik still with his own child charge on his hip.

Bands of children such as this one roaming the woods and the meadows freely is a sight far from uncommon on Krakoa. In fact, it is rather endorsed by the mutant society they are building here since there are no schools, no kindergartens, not even a university. Erik smiles at the satisfying thought that mutants have moved past the need for such human institutions and that if some of their people still think they necessitate education by _Homo sapiens_ , the whole world is open to them thanks to Krakoa’s gates. They could enrol at Oxford, Harvard, Cambridge with but a few steps over a doorsill. But here, mutant children learn through play and observation of their elders, under the stars and the shadows of the tree canopies flitting over roots and soil. Trial and error, discovery, invention and cooperation. All that is needed for a life in paradise.

And they – Charles, Erik, the others, the adults, the first of their kind -, they, in turn, learn from the children, from their successes and failures. And with what they learn from the youngest among them, they teach their society to grow and improve.

They reach and cross the edge of the woods, the green foliage enveloping them in a welcome embrace. One after the other, the chattering children break loose from them, politely saying their goodbyes before they dart back onto the clearing from which they have come, where the gates emit a soft glow in the falling dusk. Charles and Erik continue their way through the undergrowth alone.

Then, there is the swelling sound of thunder in the sky, and a shadow passes over their heads. The tree trunks groan as the wind picks up.

_Down here, Ororo._

Charles’ grip on Erik’s arm is safe and confident as he leads them away from the path and through the tangle of brambles and vines until they emerge from the woods onto a small, mossy glade. Electricity crackles in the humid evening air. Erik turns his head and listens to the hectic chirrups and cries of the forest-dwelling animals which are taking flight in the surrounding undergrowth. Then, Charles is poking him in the ribs and pointing upward.

Ororo Munroe’s slim figure is suspended in mid-air, radiant in the crimson glow of the last sun rays crossing the horizon. She smiles at them.

“Charles, Erik. Welcome back. I trust your errand was successful?”

Charles’ smile is wide under Cerebro, and Erik takes off his helmet to card his gloved fingers through his ash-white hair. “It was,” he answers, “and there was little resistance to be overcome.”

“Good. You don’t have any plans this evening, do you?”

Erik shoots Charles a look. _Do_ they have any plans this evening? It’s not like they are overly bored whenever they’re together.

“We don’t, Ororo, don’t worry.” Charles’ voice is soft and warm, as is the touch of his mind as his thoughts descend upon Erik’s, wrapping around his consciousness. _I believe this is important, my friend. We can spare a few hours for our children._

Indeed, Ororo’s eyes light up with joy at Charles’ words. “Wonderful! You see, the Summers clan is inviting to an informal banquet. We are celebrating Kitty’s- I mean, Kate’s resurrection. It’s been too long a time spent without her company.”

“A simple flaw in Krakoa’s system, bringing about so much pain,” Charles agrees, and Erik nods.

“Lead the way, Charles,” he says and extends a hand to the Professor beside him. “We will catch up with you at the gate, Storm.”

And so, they do. The surface of the gateway pulsates as they step through, Ororo in front of them, and then, they are standing on the moon.

A smiling Kate Pryde turns from her seat on the couch between Darwin and Sway and says, “You made it!”

Hidden behind their backs, Charles squeezes Erik’s hand.

“Yes. We made it.”

The light on the moon is cold, and the spaghetti is slightly overcooked (“Blame Gabriel, not me,” Cyclops hurries to tell them when Erik voices this thought), but the company makes up for it.

Emma is her usual cold, reserved self, except when she cracks a joke or two at Logan’s expense and makes laughter ripple out through the whole group of mutants assembled around the dinner table. Petra and Sway stick close to Darwin, obviously intent on making up for the centuries which he has spent in the Vault while life on Krakoa moved at a snail’s pace. Charles spends hours talking about the military strategies of alien civilisations with Vulcan, and Jean mind-shows Erik the recipe for her Early Grey – the one she always put together herself back at Graymalkin Lane, and which Charles preferred over any other tea blend. Erik resolves to procure the ingredients as fast as possible, so he can surprise his old friend with them.

Since they founded Krakoa together, they haven’t had much occasion for tea drinking.

It’s well past midnight when the various constellations of romantic partners start their retreat into their bedrooms. The first to disappear are Vulcan and Darwin, closely followed by Petra and Sway, while the rest of the family linger until Ororo is getting ready to leave for Krakoa, Charles and Erik close on her heels. And even though she gives her best to preserve the impression of her aloofness, Emma’s glee at having Jean all to herself for one whole night – Logan and Scott have decided to pull an all-nighter and watch a few movies on the couch, on the TV imported from the old School – shines through from behind her eyes.

Charles smiles one last time at the life-hostile landscape outside where Earth is slowly rising over the moon’s horizon. “Thank you for your hospitality, Jean, Emma, Scott. We will see you tomorrow probably, Earth-side.”

“Goodnight, Dad,” Jean says and leans down to pull Charles into a hug, and “Sleep well, Charles,” mutters Cyclops absent-mindedly, already turning to where Logan is heating up popcorn on the stove-like device Krakoa has grown for the Summers residence.

“Have fun,” Emma tells them, and the last thing Erik sees of the White Queen as they step through the gate and back onto Krakoan soil is her enigmatic, all-knowing smile.

When finally, Storm and the Red Queen have bid them goodbye as well and Charles and Erik find themselves once more without company in the Krakoan jungle, Charles turns around to him and asks, “Yours or mine?”

_House of M or House of X?_

Erik doesn’t have to think twice about his answer. He huffs out a silent burst of laughter.

“Ours.”

_Our very own place._

On Krakoa, in the middle of a quiet side valley, there is a path. This path is narrow and almost invisible to those who do not know about it, for itis not well-trodden, and the proliferous vegetation does not yield easily what it is intent on winning back from man’s (or rather mutant’s) grasp.

In fact, only two of Krakoa’s inhabitants know of this trail, and of the gateway to which it leads, and only these two mutants will be allowed transit through said gate. Only they know of the humble but comfortably furnished abode which lays beyond, tucked away in the flank of a Krakoan cliff face, its interior held in green and earth tones, cloaked from every and all mutant powers by Krakoan biotech. 

Forge, the inventor of said biotech, doesn’t even remember creating it.

And, what is even more important and what would appal every single member of the Quiet Council – if only they _knew_ about it -, not even Krakoa, the Mutant Island itself, the beacon of hope for an entire people, has the faintest idea of this place, this home, this sanctuary.

Moira has her No-Place. It’s only fair Charles and Erik had their own, too.

“Tea?” is the first thing Charles asks after they’ve stepped through the gate and Erik is loosening the clasps of his cape so he can settle in comfortably.

“It’s past midnight already,” he says and pulls off his helmet, gripping onto its iron-and-adamantium alloy to levitate it onto a shelf Krakoa has unknowingly grown for them at the back wall of their one-room safe haven.

But Charles is already happily pottering away in the kitchenette in the corner, occasionally glancing up and out through the window opening into the darkness of the night, where the canopies of trees and the rockfaces are lit up from behind by the never-ending mutant celebrations like artful paper cuttings. In his hands, Erik can feel the metal cups he formed out of raw slabs of silver ore, and he shudders at the care with which his old friend handles them.

“Time does not matter in paradise, Erik,” Charles finally says. “And you should by now know that it is never too late for tea.”

“No paradise lasts forever, Charles. We, and you in particular, had a taste of that only a few months ago.”

Charles doesn’t answer him. Instead, he asks, “Would you please set the kettle boiling, love?”

Erik does. It takes but a wave of his hand for the water in the tea kettle to start bubbling as the metal surrounding it warms in the grip of his powers, and he hasn’t yet fully discarded the gloves of his all-white costume when a shrill whistle sounds and prompts Charles to pour them two cups of steaming wildflower tea.

Still, Erik knows the last word hasn’t been spoken when it comes to Krakoa, and what it means for the two of them. It probably never will.

“Sit,” Charles tells him, enforcing his point by softly pushing Erik backwards until the backs of his knees hit the corner of one of the two armchairs in the room.

Erik sits.

“Here you go,” Charles says and hands him one of the teacups, careful to hold it by its rim where it isn’t yet scalding hot. Erik doesn’t even bother touching it and levitates it down onto the windowsill, before he perches his elbow on one of the arms of his chair and his chin on his hand and replies, “Thank you, Charles. But it seems to me that you’re forgetting something.”

His old friend looks at him with surprised confusion – or at least Erik thinks he does, for Cerebro covering the upper part of Charles’ face doesn’t facilitate pinpointing the telepath’s emotions -, before he chuckles and says, “Oh Erik, my apologies. It’s just that I’ve gotten so used to it by now that wearing it around the clock except for sleep and showers feels more than natural.”

Erik smiles but persists. “It has to go. Take it off, Charles, or I will do it.”

“What a tempting prospect.” But Charles reaches up – finally, _finally_ – and pulls Cerebro off his head, setting it on the coffee table between them with great care, as if he was handling a raw egg.

 _Or millions of mutant souls_ , Erik thinks quietly. Then, he is distracted by the blue of Charles’ eyes.

They are still as vibrant as the first time they met, back in Israel, back in the Holocaust survivors clinic, back when they did not yet know of their glorious fates. Erik smiles as he remembers those hot, dry days: Charles’ pale skin reddening under the Eastern sun while Erik’s tanned; Gabrielle Haller chain-smoking her dainty cigarettes between her even daintier digits; the three of them taking long walks on the beach and talking about God and the future and the azure blue of the sea.

 _Wonderful days indeed, my friend_. Charles gingerly blows onto his tea and takes the first sip. “Ah. Not enough sugar.”

“Here.” Erik locates the silver sugar tray in one of the drawers Krakoa grew for them from nothing but plant cells, pulls at the metal knob he installed himself and floats it over to Charles.

“Thank you, dear.”

“You’re welcome.”

Charles proceeds to shovel one spoonful of sugar into his tea, and then another one, and another one.

“That’s not tea with sugar, that’s sugar with tea,” Erik remarks when he’s finally finished.

“I like my tea sweet and docile,” Charles answers without missing a beat, “quite unlike you, my friend.”

Erik huffs. “Do you expect me to apologise for my behaviour towards Stark earlier?”

“Maybe. I could punish you for being such an impolite boy,” Charles muses, then puts the rim of his teacup to his lips and licks it.

Revelling in the jolt it sends down his spine, Erik does his best not to squirm in his seat. “I don’t think so. In fact, what I _do_ think is that I should be rewarded for not tearing the iron out of his erythrocytes and instead only choosing to menace him. After all, as a citizen of Krakoa, I have the right not to be ashamed of what I am, don’t you think, Charles?”

His lover doesn’t answer. Instead, he sets down his cup of tea beside Cerebro, gets up to straddle Erik’s waist and bumps their foreheads against each other.

There is no hesitating anymore, no holding back. The muscles on Charles’ waist are firm under Erik’s grasp, and though he is slimmer now than before ( _slimmer than before he was assassinated and brought back from the dead_ ), his thighs are strong, locking around Erik’s hips like a vice and making it virtually impossible for him to move.

“What is this supposed to be now? A punishment or a reward?” he growls when Charles grabs his wrists to pin them by his sides, and then he chokes on his moans as Charles’ lips get to work at his neck and jaw, just above the collar of his costume where Erik knows he will have hickeys the next day, clearly visible to anyone who isn’t blind – which is why he will have to stay in until they have faded, in bed, with no one but Charles as company.

Not making official whatever there is between them does have both its vices and its virtues.

“All things considered, there is never a big difference between punishment and reward,” Charles finally whispers into his ear, before he cranes his neck to bring their lips together and Erik’s thoughts go fuzzy around the edges.

Charles’ kiss is sweet and sugary, like his tea. Erik thinks he can taste the rich aroma of Krakoan meadows as their tongues slide against each other, and his jaw goes slack to finally allow Charles full access, let him explore every part of Erik, take him apart and put him back together again.

“This needs to go,” Charles mutters when they pause for breath, “and this as well.” Erik’s belt comes undone with a click, quickly followed by Charles’ searing hot, deft fingers sliding under the collar of his suit, working the nanotech fabric apart until it’s loose and he can slide it down Erik’s neck, past his collar bones and his shoulder blades.

Then, Charles sits back and admires his work: Erik, panting for breath, already with a slight sheen of sweat on his brow, holding onto the arms of his chair for dear life. He’s trapped between Charles’ thighs and the recliner, with no room to move and no intention to do so, either. A right mess, one could say.

“Lovely,” Charles remarks before he reaches out, runs his fingers over Erik’s collarbone and pinches one of his nipples.

Erik gasps. “Charles!” Ripples of furtive pain collide with the heat pooling low in his gut, fuelling it, making its flames roar up high like the fires their mutant children have lit on Krakoan forest glades.

“Erik.” Charles’ answering murmur is low, intimate, and Erik has to close his eyes when his old friend leans back down, or else he would come apart at the seams because while what they are doing here isn’t wrong, it isn’t right either.

Mystique for one would surely murder them if she knew.

Charles’ lips are burning the skin beneath his earlobe and his hand is sliding lower and lower, catching on Erik’s bellybutton as Erik himself reaches blindly for the seam of Charles’ catsuit. Then, he pulls, working the black latex-like fabric loose, and the paleness of Charles’ shoulders and chest blinds him when he finally reopens his eyes, intent on vocalising whatever his bad conscience thinks it’s cooking up.

His tongue, though, has other plans. “We should take this to the bed,” he hears himself say, and then his knees bend in a furtive event to get standing. But Charles holds on and only laughs, even as he fights to keep his balance.

“Something is rubbing you up the wrong way, Erik. Tell me, what could you possibly be left wanting in paradise?”

Erik bats Charles’ hand away. It’s cupping his crotch, which makes it hard to think, let alone formulate a coherent answer.

“What use is paradise to us if we can only stand to parts of what we are?” he finally growls. “We have brothers and sisters out there, mutants like us, but they have no hiding place like we have, no haven where they can live their desires as we can. For them, not even Krakoa is safe.”

“And that is why we have to educate our children. They might be a minority, but that does not give them the right to put their own needs over that of another oppressed group of people within their own folds.” Charles’ hands have finally refrained from roaming and have settled on Erik’s shoulders instead. “I am aware that what we have now has yet to be perfected. Magnus, I _promise_ you that one day, we will be able to walk hand in hand on Krakoan ground without our authority, our credibility being challenged simply because of what there is between us. But for now, we will have to go slow with any changes.”

“I’m sure that if only we looked for it, there would be another way, a faster way.” Gingerly, Erik bends his head, rests his cheek on the back of Charles’ hand. “But then again, it has never been easy to reconcile my own viewpoint with yours.”

“And it never will be. It is simply who we are.”

Oh, if only Charles could see his own face right now. In a way, it breaks Erik’s heart; knowing that no matter what they do, no matter how hard they try to defer to each other’s ideologies, they will always get to a point when hurting one another will be a necessary evil.

“You thinking such thoughts does not exactly help put me back in the mood, Erik,” Charles says, only half-joking.

This time, it’s Erik who grips him by the nape of the neck and draws their lips together, searching, seeking, chasing the aftertaste of what they created only minutes ago. Charles goes willingly, and then he gets up to shuck off his catsuit until every inch of his skin is bared to Erik, who does the same with his own white-and-grey costume. Only with his boots, Charles helps him.

“You were right, Erik,” he says when they are standing chest to chest at last, Charles’ fingers firm on Erik’s waist. “We should indeed take this to bed.”

His brain is about to come up with a snarky answer to that, or a witty one, Erik is sure. But the problem is that this is Charles, and though the man was headmaster of his own school for the longest time, he lacks patience when it comes to satisfying his more primal needs.

So, when the back of Erik’s knees hit the mattress and Charles wrestles him down onto the sheets, he is already hopelessly entrapped in the telepath’s web of pleasure endlessly repeated in feedback loops and reflected in their minds’ mirrors. And as Charles turns him over to drape himself across his back, the world recedes, draws back from Erik, vanishes, until there is nothing but Charles’ fingers, Charles’ lips, Charles’ voice whispering to him as he keens. Nothing but Charles, Charles, Charles.

_Charles._

Hours later, they are lying side by side, utterly spent, and watch the sun rise sluggishly to the left of their window opening.

“Scars,” Charles whispers and traces one on the inside of Erik’s upper arm, the torn white ridge of skin almost disappearing under the mottling of hickeys the telepath’s mouth had left there. “So many of them.”

Erik lifts his head from its resting place on Charles’ pecs and glances at his friend’s generous expanse of white – and utterly unblemished – flesh which isn’t covered by their sheets. “There are none on _yo_ _ur_ body.”

“Because Jean and The Five have returned me from the dead.” Charles’ smile is languid but content, and the skin around his eyes crinkles like dry leaves in autumn. “Yours will disappear as well after you die and come back for the first time.”

Erik doesn’t answer that at first. To him, it’s already a stretch to think of... what happened after Charles’ diplomatic visit to Sokovia.

It’s not with patient indifference that Erik remembers these days. No, if he thinks back to those weeks after all of Krakoa had gathered on that clearing, amidst those splatters of blood like fallen stars, around that cold, inert body which had once been one of them stretched out in the grass, he recalls only coldness and the impression of grappling for halt on a slippery slope. No hope. No joy at The Five potentially being capable of making possible what once had been but a mere lunatic’s dream. Just deep, bone-gripping dread.

Charles had been killed before, many times, and he had risen from the grave just as often. Sometimes, it had even been Erik enabling the killing.

But never, _never_ had Charles’ death had the potential for such wide-reaching consequences. They were – still are – in the process of founding a nation, verdammt, and his friend and occasional foe dying away under his hands was not what Magneto needed right then, what mutantdom, what their _people_ needed right then.

What they needed was reassurance. Security. The certainty that for once, no evil humans would come for them and their children.

Except that _Homo sapiens_ had done just that and taken out their most prominent public figure in the process.

_Your reflections are admirable. However, you are forgetting one thing: My resurrection returned to our children not only one of their leaders, but also their hope, stronger than ever, Erik. They now know that what we have built for them can never be taken away._

“But what if that makes them too prone to take risks? What if just this _hope_ that you are preaching teaches them not to be careful anymore? What if it makes them incautious, heedless of the dangers that can and will still befall them?” Erik sits up, turns to face the telepath he has been bedding for decades now and whose riddle of a mind he still hasn’t fully solved and probably never will. “Resurrection might make them immortal, but it does not protect them from trauma. Or do you intend to take that part away from them, too, like their scars?”

Charles takes his sweet time with his answer. His eyes focussed on a far-away point, beyond the cliff faces rising from the lush green of the Krakoan woods, beyond the endless blue of the ocean’s horizon, the telepath’s face is brilliantly alight as it is bathed in the soft morning light. If Erik had to compare him to a piece of art, he would choose a Renaissance portrait of a Saint in rapture, touched by the power of God.

As it is, Charles himself is better compared to the Almighty Himself than to one of his servants.

“If they so wish, mutants can define whether they want to keep certain damaging parts of their selves or have them lobotomised upon their resurrection. All they have to do is write their will down, or tell it to someone they trust, and we in Arbor Magna will try to heed their request best as we can,” Charles states matter-of-factly. “However, I’m afraid that we can do nothing about their scars. They _will_ be relieved of them.” There, he reaches for Erik again, for the jagged red line that curves over his hip bones and mars his chestnut flesh.

Erik’s breath hitches at the touch. “In that case, I do hope my resurrection is still far off in the future. I do not wish for my scars to be mended. They are a reminder of who I am, what I have fought for and will keep on fighting for, despite our living in paradise now.”

“Wise words, my friend…” Charles trails off, distracted by the zigzag of a particularly dark scar running along the inside of Erik’s thigh and disappearing under the sheets. He pushes the fabric back and down until enough of Erik’s dark, tanned skin seems to be on display for his liking. “But do you not think our children deserve the burden of their past to be lifted from their shoulders?”

“There is a limit to all good which aid can do. You don’t cut open a butterfly’s chrysalis before he is able to fly.”

“You almost sound like our old friend, **▪ ▪▪┃A┃▪▪ ▪** , dear Erik. Don’t tell me he is capable of influencing you but that I will have to run on against your unyielding ideology until the end of times.”

“This is not about you or me and our viewpoints anymore, Charles. This is about our people and their future.”

“A future which we _will_ do our best to preserve and improve, Magnus” Charles says or rather insists, and suddenly, the playful note from before has vanished from his voice. “I think we should give this a rest. We’ve sought out this No-Place for pleasure, not to argue the fundamental pillars of our Krakoan society.”

Already a snarky reply is forming on Erik’s tongue, about how sleeping wolves left to rest will wake up at the most inconvenient of times and that now is as good a moment to argue as any other day, but Charles is right. They are tired, exhausted from the whole length of a night spent either making conversation with friends or claiming each other’s bodies in the throes of pleasure. No more breath left to start yet another fight without a rational conclusion.

“Well then,” he breathes and leans back against the headboard, “what do you suggest we occupy ourselves with instead?”

“You may do whatever you want, Erik,” Charles answers, “but I myself will say goodbye to these scars as long as I still can.”

Erik watches as Charles Xavier, fearless leader of mutantdom, protector and teacher of many, gets on his knees so he can reach over and grab a hold of Erik’s ankle, drawing his leg up and to his lips. His breath hitches as his old friend’s tongue flicks out and over the white and red and dark brown lines crisscrossing Erik’s shin, ere it moves on and up to the ones on the inside of his thigh, and then to the scar just below Erik’s bellybutton, without rest and fear. The sinewy muscles on his back move under a slight sheen of sweat, and Erik is mesmerized, enthralled, utterly lost.

Once more, he yields. As his eyes fall closed, his last thought before the all-encompassing warmth takes over is not to his children, or to the ones they lost. It is not to the sun rising outside, shining on the forest glades and canopies of their very own nation. 

No, his reflection is much more selfish. It’s to Charles, and how despite all their differences and violence, fate will always gift them with at least one quiet moment together, in a place such as this one.

In their very own No-Place. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, please consider leaving kudos and a comment. It doesn't have to be anything elaborate (a "loved it!" or "+kudos" would already make my day), but for an author, it's always lovely to see that their writing has touched someone so much that they take the time to type out a few short words (:


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